A Hanging at Dawn: A Bess Crawford Short Story

by Charles Todd

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Melinda

  Richard

  Clarissa

  Bess

  An Irish Hostage and A Fatal Lie 1

  2

  About the Author

  Remarkable Praise for the Bess Crawford Series

  Also by Charles Todd

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  When we were well along in our Ian Rutledge series, we wrote a short story “prequel” to explore Hamish MacLeod’s life before the books began: The Piper.

  We did the same thing for the Bess Crawford series, with a short story about Bess growing up in India, well before the books caught up with her: The Maharani’s Pearls.

  And now here, in A Hanging at Dawn, is a short story about Simon Brandon, who figures large in the Bess Crawford series—filling in some of the blanks that the reader doesn’t know. Secrets even Bess herself doesn’t know. Yet.

  But you needn’t be a fan of either series to read these prequels. They are complete in themselves and—we hope!—each a great story on its own.

  Enjoy!

  Prologue

  England, the turn of the century . . .

  Who is this man, Simon Brandon, and why has his past been a blank to those who think they know him best?

  Was it something in Simon himself—or something in the people around him, seeing what they wanted to see—that made him the man he was?

  Why did Melinda Crawford, widow of a British Army officer, step in at a crucial moment in Simon’s life, and then for his pride’s sake, step away? Why did she give her cousin, Richard Crawford, recently promoted Major in a regiment posted to India, the daunting task of turning the angry boy—if possible—into a man and a soldier?

  What was there about him that made Clarissa, Richard’s wife, trust him with their small daughter, Bess?

  Was it his own youth or something else in him that made Bess tease and bully him to get her own way—and unwittingly teach him to laugh?

  What was there about him that made a handful of people stand by him until the end, when he was in dire straits and facing death?

  Melinda

  Kent, England, Spring 1899

  I had just returned from a spring visit to Florence. As the staff greeted me, my attention was suddenly caught by the post lying in the silver dish, where it is always left during my absence. There was a crest on the topmost letter that I immediately recognized, and after responding to my welcome, I walked over to pick it up.

  It was from a dear friend, a high-ranking member of the General Staff, Harris Clifford.

  And it had been posted a week ago.

  Curious, I picked it up and opened it at once, drawing out the single sheet inside.

  And it was a very good thing I did! Because Harris had written to inform me that he would be arriving—Great heavens—today at two o’clock.

  I glanced up at the tall case clock face. That was ten minutes from now.

  There was no time for a bath, no time even to bring in the rest of my trunks. I had hardly taken off my hat, brushed the travel wrinkles out of my skirts, before a pair of horses came trotting up my drive.

  If my late husband hadn’t stood unequivocally against women using strong language, I would have sworn. I certainly knew how, and I was fairly certain my vocabulary was the equal of any trooper in the line. Nevertheless, I did try to honor his memory.

  I sent the staff away, handed my hat and gloves and traveling cloak to Shanta, who whisked them out of sight, and then hastily climbed the stairs.

  From the window overlooking the drive, I watched as the Colonel and a junior officer dismounted and came striding up to knock at my door.

  Not a social call, then, or the Colonel would have come alone.

  I must say, Harris Clifford had not changed with the years. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome—and a fine soldier. He’d been decorated for bravery more than once. His hair was streaked with gray now, but in my view it only added to his charm.

  I turned away and stepped quietly into my sitting room.

  Shanta came upstairs, knocked lightly at my door, and announced my visitors.

  “They are in the parlor, two very handsome officers. Why did you not come home sooner? Look at you! Let me straighten your skirts!”

  She has been with me for more years than I cared to count, and she still addresses me as if I am ten.

  “It won’t do any good—I shall just have to make the best of it.”

  Resigned, I went down the stairs and into the drawing room, where Harris and the junior officer were waiting.

  “My dear,” he said, coming forward to take my hands and kiss me on both cheeks. “It’s wonderful to see you. You’re looking well—as always!”

  I smiled up at him. “And I see that the Army still agrees with you.”

  He grimaced. “Occasionally.” Keeping one of my hands in his, he turned. “May I present Major MacInnes. Of your old Regiment.”

  The Major was perhaps thirty-five, an attractive man, and, as I discovered, with a lovely Scottish accent.

  He bowed formally, saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. We still talk about your services in India.”

  I hadn’t intended to be a heroine. But at the Siege of Lucknow, we’d been evacuated from the city itself to the Residency, and we were hard-pressed to hold out until help arrived. I’d taken water out to the men holding the perimeter against the mutineers, and because I was small, I’d managed to reach a good many of them without being shot at. Of course, it hadn’t actually occurred to me that I might be shot at, I was just six. My only thought was to relieve the thirst of men who were literally protecting us from a fate worse than death at the hands of rebels who took evil pleasure in the savage mutilation of women and children. But my poor mother, watching me move along the line, had her heart in her throat. The heat in India takes a terrible toll of body and then soul, and I had worried about those soldiers. Most of whom I knew, because my own father was somewhere else in India, fighting to quell the Mutiny and relieve places like Lucknow. The history books called it the Sepoy Rebellion, spreading across India like wildfire when Muslim troops were told that their rifle cartridges had deliberately been smeared with pig grease. It was a lie used to stir up trouble against the English, and it nearly worked, because to the troops, pigs were unclean, anathema.

  I smiled. “How nice of you, Major. Please, gentlemen, do be seated.” And I took the chair closest to the hearth. There was a fire blazing there, and it felt good on a sunny but chill afternoon. “May I offer you tea?”

  I rang the little bell on the table beside my chair, and we chatted for a few minutes, catching up on family news—his—and my travels, until Shanta brought in the tea tray. More time was spent on the polite formalities, and as soon as Harris and the Major had finished all the cakes on the tray, I felt I could ask what had brought them to Kent.

  “You haven’t come all this way just to see me, Harris. How can I be of service to you?”

  Harris glanced at the Major and then said, “We have a problem. A young recruit. He has lied about his age and joined the Army. Because he’s tall and his voice has already dropped, no one realized just how young he was until a Sergeant recognized his name and then reported the situation to the Major here.”

  “Recognized his name? Is he someone I know?”

  It was the only reason I could think of for them to come here to me.

  It was the Major who took up the story. “I’m not sure, ma’am. He lives with his gra
ndfather. His parents are dead. It seems the grandfather never forgave his daughter for choosing to marry into the Army. I’m told he has made his grandson’s life as wretched as he could, although surprisingly enough, he never neglected the lad’s education. The circumstances were known to Sergeant Davis, who had served with the lad’s father. The boy is filled with anger, and he’s determined to join the Army, I think simply to spite his grandfather, rather than to follow in his father’s footsteps.” He coughed slightly, to hide his concern. “The question is, what do we do with him? He’s too young to serve, you see. But sending him back to his grandfather is not a choice any of us who know the situation really care to make.”

  “Who, pray, is his grandfather?”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was far from what I was about to hear!

  “Marcus Sinclair. Do you know him, by any chance? It would help if you did.”

  I didn’t. But I knew of him.

  His father had had a title, but as a younger son, Marcus was merely an Honorable. Still, he married well, a young woman who came from another well-to-do family. They were apparently quite happy, had two children, a daughter and then a son. Marcus doted on the little girl. She was the image of her mother. When the son was born a few years later, the mother died of childbed fever, and the boy only survived her by a few days. Dorothea grew up to be both pretty and sweet, like her mother, and Marcus had high hopes for her. Instead, she eloped with an Army officer after he had angrily forbidden her to see him again.

  That was where I came into the picture, because the young officer was in my late husband’s Regiment. He wasn’t as wealthy as Dorothea, he had no title, but he came from an old and very distinguished family—she had hardly married beneath her.

  They had had a child, and when he was four, his parents were shot to death while they were posted to South Africa. Their killer was never found. It was in all the newspapers, an international tragedy. Their son was sent back to England with his Nanny, and handed over to the grandfather. End of a sad story. Or so we’d believed.

  I said to the Major, “Shouldn’t he be enrolled in a school somewhere? That would be the best solution to the problem.”

  “His grandfather didn’t enroll him anywhere. Instead he brought in tutors.”

  I sighed. “What are we to do with him, then? Do we know anyone who could get him into Eton? Harrow?”

  Harris spoke then. “That’s where we hoped you could help us. He’s officially enlisted, you see, and he’s already halfway through his training. Glowing accounts from the Sergeants who have him in hand. Born soldier, like his father. But there’s a great deal of anger in the lad, and he has some trouble with authority. If he’s not court-martialed before he’s shot for insubordination, I’ll be surprised.”

  I thought he was exaggerating.

  “Are you suggesting I should take a look at this young man?”

  Relief on the faces of both officers. “It would be a kindness,” Harris said.

  Oh, dear.

  “Very well. How do we go about this?”

  They had thought this through. They had only waited for me to suggest the possibility of helping them.

  “That shouldn’t be at all difficult,” Major MacInnes assured me. “He can be assigned to escort you to your meeting with me. That should give you an opportunity to inspect him.”

  “You’ll stay the night, gentlemen, while I rearrange my trunks?”

  They were willing to stay.

  I ordered Shanta to prepare their rooms and asked my cook to prepare a suitable dinner. He stared at me, then said, “I kill myself.”

  “There isn’t time. Just do your best.”

  I left him to it.

  In the morning, my carriage pulled up at the front door, my trunks, repacked overnight, were stowed in the boot, and the two officers joined me inside as Ram, my coachman, gave the horses the order to walk on.

  The Regiment was headquartered in Hampshire. We arrived there two days later, having taken the train from Kent to London, where the Colonel, after a lovely dinner, bade me a warm goodbye.

  Still, I had the feeling that he was beginning to wonder if he’d done the right thing by asking a civilian to help solve a military matter.

  His carriage had just drawn up before my hotel, and I said rather bluntly, “Harris. Are you having second thoughts about my continuing my journey?”

  He took my hand. “I met this young man—it was arranged by MacInnes, of course, quite by accident or so it appeared. It struck me afterward that if he returned to his home in Essex, either he would continue to try to enlist—or he would kill his grandfather. There is no other way out of his predicament.”

  I must admit. I was shocked. “How can you be so sure?”

  Releasing my hand, he said, “I didn’t wish to speak of this in front of the Major. But I remember Brandon’s parents. Not well, of course. But the manner of their deaths stayed with me. Hugh was an up-and-coming officer, good reports and all that. Beginning to be noticed. His wife was such a lovely woman. But there was something about her, a strength perhaps, beneath her charm and lightness of heart. I did wonder if she had had a serious illness, a difficult recovery. Or looking back now, perhaps it was the break with her father. Who can say? I do recall being told after they were killed, and the child was to be carried back to England to his grandfather, that their Nanny pleaded with the police and Brandon’s fellow officers not to send him to Essex. That when Lieutenant Brandon had been posted to South Africa, his wife had been adamant about accompanying him, refusing to remain in England without him, and neither parent would consider leaving the child with his grandfather. In the Nanny’s hearing she had said at the time that she would rather see her child dead first. The Nanny was considered to be hysterical, she was dismissed, and Brandon’s commanding officer found a family sailing to London from Cape Town. They were asked to take the child with them.”

  “That must have been extraordinarily difficult for him to understand. His parents dead, the only other familiar face taken away as well.”

  “Indeed. And from what I’ve gathered, no warm and loving welcome awaiting him in Essex, a house and a grandfather he did not know.”

  “Was the murderer ever caught?”

  “A man was tried and hanged, yes.”

  “Does young Brandon have any financial resources?”

  Harris was suddenly uncomfortable. I realized he’d spoken to the family’s solicitors. “Hmm. He has no money of his own. There’s a small allowance given him by his grandfather. While there is money in trust, he won’t come into it until his thirtieth birthday. His grandmother’s dowry. That had been his mother’s, but she had never touched it. Instead she had put it in the child’s name.”

  “A long wait until thirty.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you taking such an interest, Harris?”

  “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “Do you suppose I’m getting sentimental in my dotage?”

  I laughed. “Or is it that he reminds you of someone? His father?” I could have bitten my tongue as I saw in the dim light of the carriage how his face changed. Trying to avoid anything painful, I added, “Then you think he might be as good a soldier?”

  “I’m sorry that he can’t wait. I believe Sandhurst would have taken him.”

  “Yes, well. One problem at a time.”

  “Quite.”

  We parted on good terms, as we always did. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve always been fond of Harris. And he of me. But I carried food for thought away with me.

  From London, another train carried me to Lynford, and there my own carriage had arrived and was waiting to convey me to Regimental Headquarters.

  I had to admit to a feeling of exhilaration and familiarity. I hadn’t been back for some time, and secretly I had missed the orderly chaos of a post. After all, I’d spent much of my life both as a child and as a wife in places such as these. I had grown up to marry another officer in my father’s Regimen
t, and we had been terribly happy—until I lost him to cholera at far too young an age . . .

  Major MacInnes had gone ahead to prepare for my arrival, and as the carriage approached the gates, a young guard stepped out to ask my business. I told him with a smile that I’d been invited to take lunch with Major MacInnes.

  After a glance at Ram, my majordomo and coachman, who was Indian, and immensely impressive in his turban and smart clothes, I was welcomed to Lynford and asked if I knew my way to the Major’s quarters.

  “I’m afraid not,” I admitted, lying through my teeth.

  “Let me summon someone to escort you.”

  He did, and in a few minutes, a tall young man in uniform came trotting to the gate, was told where to take me, and I asked him to join me in the carriage rather than sit with Ram on the box.

  “Good morning,” I said, “I hope I haven’t taken you from something you’d rather be doing. But I’m glad of a guide.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Crawford,” he said politely. He looked anything but pleased.

  That was two of us lying through our teeth.

  “And where are you from?” I asked, the epitome of a chatty elderly lady.

  Grudgingly. “The North, ma’am.”

  Another lie.

  “Are you indeed? Yorkshire? I’m not familiar with that part of the country. I live in Kent, you see. Ever been there, Private—er—”

  “Private Brandon, ma’am. Will you please direct your coachman to take the first turning to his right and proceed to the brick building at the end of the road?”

  “He understands perfect English,” I said dryly. “Direct him yourself.”

  He flushed at that. “Thank you, ma’am.” And raising his voice slightly, he told Ram where to go. I was interested to see he wasn’t put off by an Indian servant. Although Ram would most certainly have taken offense at the term servant.

  He had very strong views on his position in my household and the running thereof. I had occasionally had to remind him whose household it actually was.